


Winter Solstice

by SueG5123



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-12 10:04:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5662303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SueG5123/pseuds/SueG5123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Later, as Jenna recounted the chronology to the detective taking her statement, she knew that there was simply no logic to picking up a suit from the cleaner’s in the morning and holding it, bloodied, hours later.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Come and Whisper in My Ear

The event began near the end of the A block, at 8:07pm on 27 December 2012.

Everyone was in agreement with that, at least. 

 

__**Detective James** : Can I get you something to drink, some coffee or water? You look like you—  
**Jenna Johnson** : No. I’m fine—  
**Det. James** : How about a Coke?  
**Jenna Johnson** : I’m all right. Just—let’s do this, okay?  
**Det. James** : If you’re ready. [Long pause as he studies her.] Let’s start at the beginning. What do you do here, Ms. Johnson? 

On Mondays and Thursdays, Jenna stopped by the dry cleaner’s on her way into work, picking up whatever suits and shirts had accumulated. Will McAvoy’s suits had, at least since the return of MacKenzie McHale, moved exclusively to the blue to charcoal spectrum, in keeping with both Mac’s personal preferences and the gravitas she wished the anchor to project. Slightly more leeway was accorded shirts, a quadrant that ranged from crisp white to shades of blue, always solids and never striped or window-paned. Ties were typically solid colors as well, although one or two regimental stripes were in the rotation, for variety’s sake.

In any event, Jenna got to the AWM tower that morning with the laundry ration and placed the clothes on the rack with the others in Wardrobe. At some point, someone—and Jenna wasn’t entirely sure _who_ , whether it was Mac or a Senior Producer or even Will himself—would decide which suit would be needed and she would be dispatched to collect it and two complementary shirts (always two, for built-in redundancy) and bring them to Will’s office. 

But in between picking up fresh suits and reclaiming the worn ones following the broadcast, Jenna’s day as Will’s assistant veered between mundane errands (fetching Diet Dr. Peppers and the occasional sandwich) and the near-journalistic (researching whatever topic he assigned). Today, Jenna had been mining statistics associated with Congressional support for agribusiness, in anticipation of a possible series early in the new year. Perhaps owing to his own Nebraska background, Will was particularly interested in tax payer subsidized crop insurance and how it seemed to benefit corporate farms more than independent family farmers. He was, it seemed, ever on the look-out for a crusade.

But one thing was for certain, as far as Jenna was concerned, and that was that Will had mellowed a bit in seven weeks. He didn’t seem as perpetually testy, as volatile as before. He even appeared to have grown into his self-appointed role of Director of Morale, coaching the staff through the interminable depositions and new filings associated with the monster labeled _Genoa_.

His change in disposition was just another reason in a long list for which Jenna was grateful to MacKenzie.

Immediately following the astonishing election night denouement, there had been idle office speculation of a quick elopement and Caribbean honeymoon. But days, then weeks, passed, and they were into late November sweeps and the December tragedy at Newtown. Will and Mac either never found the right moment to get away or else came to the realization that the central part of their lives was here, in New York, at ACN, with their coworkers, and desired no more.

Jenna herself subscribed to another theory, one that originated in inadvertently overhearing MacKenzie talking with Sloan. Mac had said, “Not right away. After all this time, we deserve a bit more of a love affair first.”

They certainly did.

And even though Will was hardly the confiding type (particularly to someone of Jenna’s youth and low-ranked position on the ACN food chain), she had heard him reveal to Charlie during an unguarded moment, “I feel like the luckiest man on earth. With the possible exception of Ringo.” Followed by the hitch of a half-smile that made plain his knowing facetiousness.

Jenna overheard a lot of things. She kept confidences.

“Um—Will McAvoy? I’m looking for Will McAvoy.” A DHL Express deliveryman stood in front of her, holding a package. “I was told you would know where I could find him.”

Jenna didn’t have to check the clock to know. “He’s live right now,” nodding at the glass wall of the studio, “but I can sign for that.” 

The delivery-man—who, she now noticed, was unshaven and generally more ill-kempt than the norm—casually slipped a handgun from his open jacket. “This really needs to be delivered personally.” Then, turning, smiling, he added, “You’re awfully young. You should leave now.”

Later, as Jenna recounted the chronology to the detective taking her statement, she knew that there was simply no logic to picking up a suit from the cleaner’s in the morning and holding it, bloodied, hours later.

 

__**Detective James** : You’re the president of the news division—that includes all the broadcasts that originate here in New York?  
**Charlie Skinner** : [impatient] --and D.C., and sometimes L.A., but not very often from there because no one out there actually watches news and not very much of anything really important originates there. Orange juice and earthquakes, I guess.  
**Det. James** : Mr. Skinner, I need your cooperation. There’s been a shooting and we need information from you—  
**Charlie** : Can you find out for me—how’s MacKenzie? Someone’s with her, right? I mean, there’s been no word and I really can’t imagine how she—  
**Det. James** : When did you find out there was a problem? 

The week between Christmas and New Year’s was notoriously slow, news-wise. 2012 had been nothing if not spectacular to date—escalation of the Syrian civil war, a polarizing presidential election cycle, a heartbreaking slaughter of innocents. _Not to mention the allegation of atrocities committed by U.S. military forces followed by a mortifying retraction_. The lift given the newsroom staff by Will McAvoy’s ridiculous romantic outburst on election night had been severely tempered by the latest horrific mass shooting. Charlie could second-guess himself and opine that he should have just put _News Night_ on a holiday hiatus—he had in years past, when Will’s moroseness would spike over holidays and spill into the mood of the broadcast.

But this year was so different. Because of MacKenzie, true, but also because Will’s mood had lightened and with it, seemingly, the disposition of the entire newsroom. Disappointments and disasters weren’t as dire. Even the friggin’ Dantana spectacle seemed manageable now that Will and Mac were on the same page again.

So when Charlie Skinner came to Production Control on 27th December, his motives were purely social. This was a Thursday night, and he was of a weekend mind already. Although Charlie spent the week, Monday through Thursday, at his pied-a-terre on East 56th, sterile but convenient for the demands of his position as President of ACN, he looked forward to weekends at home in Stamford. He assumed this night would be a perfunctory broadcast. With the Sandy Hook tragedy and the national shaming it engendered now weeks behind them, there wasn’t much new news for News Night to mull, and so the show tentatively commenced the obligatory year-end review.

Charlie intended to just poke his head into Control for a few moments then commence an early weekend. Millie had scheduled the car to pick him up at 8:30.

As he entered Control, Mac was leaning over the video switcher board, in close discussion with Herb. Jim Harper, polite kid that he was, immediately stood and offered his stool, but Charlie shook his head and leaned against the wall, arms crossed, surveying the well-oiled machinery that now was News Night. Mac finally glanced up and he waved at her to continue what she was doing; this was just a brief pop-in inspection before he trundled off to Connecticut. He looked at the entire crew with a certain measure of self-satisfaction. They were a good group and seemed to work well together. Much of that owed to MacKenzie and the recent changes to the formerly misanthropic anchor, but all of the personalities seemed to mesh satisfactorily. 

_What a pleasure to have these people in his_ —Charlie’s exact thought the moment before things began to go wrong.

“What’s that? Did somebody just—?” Kendra was first to verbalize the utter wrongness of a figure having entered the studio through the door leading from the bullpen. Apart from breaking Will’s personal taboo, it simply couldn’t be countenanced on live air.

At the CCU panel, Jake immediately switched camera feeds to isolate Will, in a head-and-shoulders shot, on the live monitor.

Voices clamored rhetorical questions— _“What the fuck?” “Who is that?” “Is he lost?”_ —before someone finally made the most obvious declaration, “Get Security up here.”

“Go to commercial, now,” Mac commanded and Herb complied, the live feed suddenly thrown without introduction or explanation to a sultry model pitching an erectile dysfunction remedy.

“Quiet!” Charlie’s mouth twisted and he seemed to sag with the weight of what he was seeing on the studio monitor. What they all saw. 

The intruder brandished a handgun.

To a person, the room silenced. All attention was focused on Monitor One. Where Will McAvoy reacted, half-rising from his chair, moving briefly out of frame, before sinking back down.

Charlie pointed to Tess. “Call Security, make sure they know this guy is armed. We’re going to need to shift the air to Transmission Control,” he added, looking directly at Mac and Herb as the next most-experienced broadcasters in the room. He nodded at Kendra next. “Calmly—very calmly—I want you to call someone in the bullpen and have them begin—“

Kendra gestured at the heavily tinted glass wall that separated Production Control from the news desks. They could see Jenna Johnson, highly agitated, trying to make a point to Gary Cooper, prompting frantic turns-of-the-head from others to the studio glass. It seemed like a silent movie, with wildly obvious pantomimes. “I think they know.”

There were indistinguishable murmurs in Control as people suddenly realized the import of an armed intruder on the other side of the wall. Charlie became particularly aware of an angry whispered exchange between Jim and MacKenzie, both silhouetted in front of the bank of monitors in the front of Control, but he felt compelled to resume his earlier chain of thought. 

“Call them anyway. They need to get out. Quietly. We’ve got to go, too. There’s no lock on that door,” Charlie inclined his head to indicate Control’s bi-directional doors. “Two by two. The dog-leg in the corridor should give us enough cover to get out without being seen—“

“If this guy is the only one,” Joey muttered, earning a sharp look of annoyance from Charlie.

“Okay, you go first,” Charlie smarted back. “That way, you can check my math while you’re out there.”

Contrary to the retort, however, Kendra and Jake went first, because Charlie knew that having young children at home was the bona fide justification for priority treatment. Tess and Joey after that, the predictable concession to their own relative youth. Herb waited a few moments before easing out on his own. As Charlie looked for the last of his lambs to shepherd from Control, Jim and Mac were still bent together, whispering urgently.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Charlie hoped he sounded angry enough to make them snap to action. “Security’s on their way. We’ve got to get out of here.”

Mac shook her head vehemently, her left hand cupping the mic of the headset she still wore. “He can still hear me. I’ve got to stay.”

Leaving her in the booth was macabre beyond all imagination, so he reached for her elbow, prepared to physically eject her from the room if necessary. When she twisted away, Charlie looked to Jim for help in making his case.

He found none. 

“Someone needs to be in his ear right now, Charlie. We can manage this.” Charlie noticed that even Mac was startled by Jim's use of a plural pronoun.

Charlie shook his head. “You think you’re going to, what?— _produce_? You’re standing in a room with glass walls and there’s a man with a gun next door. The cops’ll order you out—“

“Negotiation is going to hinge on communication,” Jim returned. “The cops won’t know what the conversation is in the studio unless someone’s here to relay it.”

“The authorities will make us cut the transmission. No one’s gonna risk—“ Charlie stopped there, unwilling to give voice to the obvious possibilities in Mac’s presence. Hell, he didn’t want to consider all the prospects himself. A hostage scenario on live air, doubtless featuring some lunatic diatribe and ending, good god, ending in a probable shooting. In real time, on live air.

 

__**Detective James** : James Harper—do you go by James or—  
**Jim Harper** : Jim. Jim’s fine.  
**Det. James** : You’re the senior producer for News Night. What does that mean? 

Jim hadn’t seen a Beretta M9 since Afghanistan but he recognized it instantly. It had been the go-to sidearm for the Marine unit with whom he and Mac had been embedded. The M9 was less blocky than a Glock or SIG Sauer, symmetrical, distinctively streamlined and swept. Readier to grip.

He tried to remember the capacity of the magazine, whether it was 13 or 15 rounds.

Of course, this guy might have a custom magazine. Perhaps even some nice hollow-point or soft-point rounds.

His eyes sought Mac, to gauge her reaction and try to get some sense of how to respond. She was rooted before Monitor One, eyes wide, as Will McAvoy reacted to an intruder holding what appeared to be a semi-automatic handgun. On the screen, Will’s arms went to the arms of his chair, pushing himself up before doubtless realizing the risk of the effort. Then, sinking back into his chair, Will somehow managed to replace anxiety with cool. “What’s this about?”

Jim saw her straighten and then turn. Towards the door.

“No. He’s buying us time.” Jim dodged chairs and people in the tiny room, working his way over to where she stood. He was dimly conscious of Charlie and others talking in the background. “Mac. We’ve all got to go—“

She shot him a withering, dismissive look. “I can’t.”

She stopped, more, Jim believed, from her own dawning realization of the futility of dashing to the studio than his own exhortation. After a moment, she blinked and seemed to come back to herself. Her eyes darted around to the faces of the staff, all of them seemingly turned to her, measuring her, despite Charlie’s barking in the background.

Jim licked his lips. “We can’t—he wouldn’t want—I mean, there must be people, Security, first responders, that sort thing—coming any minute—they’ll take care of this.“

She stared at him as if he was plainly crazy. He felt crazy.

_It can still end okay._ He wanted to reassure her somehow. Pitch hope he didn’t feel, invent an implausible rescue from blatant jeopardy. “Mac. We need to—“ 

“We need to clear Control—” she announced, voice low but steady, ironically echoing Charlie’s brusque orders across the room.

“Wait— _listen_. This guy’s saying something—“ Joey announced, backing from the graphics panel and gesturing to the monitor. “I can’t hear—he isn’t miked—“ 

Jim pivoted to Jake’s CCU panel. “Show me how to make the shotgun mic in the camera hot.” He flipped the toggle Jake indicated, then adjusted the potentiometer for volume.

Mac was at his shoulder. “I still can’t make it out.”

“He said he wants Will to interview him. On air.”

“What the fuck are you doing?” Charlie’s voice, low for stealth, nonetheless cracked with anger and disbelief. “Security’s on their way. This is going to be a story told in moments—you won’t be able to—“

“Hey—look. Look. What’s he doing now?”

At Herb’s voice, they turned in unison. The intruder had produced a mini tablet computer and propped it on the anchor desk.

Jim and Mac both heard over their headsets. For the others in the room, Jim relayed the message. “He said he’ll know if he isn’t on the broadcast—“

“He’s streaming the show.”

Charlie swore, then grabbed Tess by the arm and Joey by the collar. “You two. Out. Now. Directly to the elevators. No waiting, go directly to ground.”

“Did you throw to Transmission Control?” Mac asked Herb, who had risen and made his way back to where Charlie stood.

“Charlie told me to. They’ll have it when the commercial package ends.”

“Shit. Get it back.”

Mac hesitated over the switches, anxiety making it difficult to visually isolate the one directing live feed. 

“I’ll call them to make sure,” Jim added.

“MacKenzie,” Charlie growled.

She made herself oblivious to him. Jim shook his head, knowing this decision was made.

Charlie wouldn’t surrender, though. “You think you’re going to, what?— _produce_? You’re standing in a room with glass walls and there’s a man with a gun next door. Security’s going to order you out as soon as they get here—“

“No, they won’t, because we’re going to give them direct interface with this guy.” Picking up the phone to call Transmission Control, Jim found himself articulating the only possible rationale for staying. “Negotiation will hinge on communication, and we’re going to know what the conversation is in the studio.”

“You’re being fucking naïve. The authorities will make us cut the transmission. No one is going to risk—“ Charlie stopped abruptly, as if not voicing the exact nature of the risks might offer some measure of protection from them. After a long pause, during which he looked from Jim to Mac to Monitor One and finally back to Jim, he sighed. “Waveguide. Find a piece of rigid waveguide and use it to bar the door. Keep the electronics cabinets between you and that wall. Stay down.” He held up his cell phone. “And keep the fucking line open, I want to hear you breathing on the other end.” 

With a departing glance that seemed equal parts infuriation and regret, Charlie finally slipped out the door.

Jim dropped the phone back to the cradle. “You’ve got the air.”

Mac toggled her mic on for the first time in five long minutes. “I’m here, Will.” Mac said carefully into the mic, her hand on the video mixer’s T-bar. “Stand by—roll in.” 

On Monitor One, Will’s head suddenly snapped forward, eyes widened.

 

And so, at 8:12, News Night returned from an unusually protracted commercial break.


	2. I Guess It's Just Us Now

Behind him, in mid-word, Will heard the air move and didn’t have to turn to know that someone had crossed the threshold from the bullpen. 

Almost simultaneously, there was a hard click over the IFB, which experience told him meant the audio from Control had been abruptly switched off.

_This better be fucking breaking news,_ was his next thought. _On the order of jet airplanes crashing into fucking skyscrapers down the street._

But what he saw loom beside him was an unfamiliar face, an unremarkable figure in the vaguely familiar uniform of a package delivery service. Even more out of place than the presence of this stranger was the handgun he wielded. It commanded its own respect.

Will had begun pushing himself up confront the intruder, instinctively, unthinkingly, before deciding that might be an imprudent course of action. He let himself drop back into his chair. 

“What’s this about?”

A foot away from him, the man in the DHL uniform pulled out a facing chair and sat, running his free hand appreciatively over the full-grain leather of the chair, smudging the spotless glass of the anchor desk. He produced a small tablet computer and propped it on the desk. “You’re gonna interview me, Mr. McIllroy.”

Will winced. “McAvoy.” He really couldn’t help himself.

“—And I’ll know—“ the other man tapped the tablet with the muzzle of his pistol, “I’ll know if you cut me off.”

The man’s words, not to mention the evident seriousness of his intent, were easy to comprehend. What Will struggled with just now were questions about how he got here, were there bodies between the elevators and the studio, and, if there were, what was the implication for his own survivability.

“We’re on commercial break right now.” Will swallowed hard, his mouth having gone suddenly dry. 

Then, to his horror, through the IFB earpiece he heard another click and, “I’m here, Will.”

_nonodon’tbehereIdon’twantyouherefuckIdon’twantyouwatchingthiswhatevermighthappenallawful things[perhapsjustmeshittingmydrawersstillawful] jeezusgodI’msosorryforthisMacIamIdon’twanttodiein frontofyouIdon’twanttodieatallnotnowsixweekswithforsixyearswithoutandknowingtheironyofbeingtoo latejoke’sonmebutthere’snojusticeinthatandI’msorryjustsorrysopleasedon’tbehereMacIwantyou somewherefarawayandIdahowouldbeagoodstart_

 

He tried to telegraph all that by staring into the dark iris of the crane camera. But he only managed to verbalize, softly, “Leave now, Mac.”

Either unaware of the presence of the interruptible foldback unit in Will’s ear or else unaware that it was a tether to communications beyond the studio, the intruder just assumed Will’s low words were intended for him, that “Mac” meant “Mack,” or “Bub,” or “Old Chap,” just a random honorific for a total stranger.

“Uh uh. Interview—that’s what you do here, isn’t it?” He used the gun to gesture behind them at the bullpen. “And I better not look out that window and see police—“

Again, through the earpiece in Will’s right ear, “Stand by—roll in.”

_Shit, shit. She was still there._

The red light glowed. 

Will forced air out of his lungs and, resigned, tapped his pen in some insane ritual of acknowledgement, affirming he knew that they were live now. He wished there was a nonverbal signal for the rest of what he was feeling. 

_Really, Mac? You couldn’t go? The sensible thing to do? Where the fuck is Charlie and why isn’t he evacuating the staff? Jim? The fucking police? Surely somebody is going to take charge of this thing, get innocents out of the line of fire._

He glanced at the other man and gave a short nod, hoping to indicate that the broadcast was coming back from break. Even he realized it would be hard for the guy to divine that from a single curt nod.

“Welcome back to News Night. Tonight, we have a guest in the studio.” Pause. “I’ll let him introduce himself.”

The faux DHL man glanced down at his tablet, startled momentarily at his own image in the screen. “Okay, yeah—thank you for having me on News Night and all tonight.” A smidge of sarcasm as he parroted the format he’d heard hundreds of times from the television in his living room. “I’ve been watching you for years—“

_A fan?_

“—and I just couldn’t take your misrepresenting things anymore.”

_Okay, not a fan._

“Hold on.” Gun or no, Will wasn’t about to let his integrity be challenged in a public forum without some push-back. “Let’s go back and start with your name.”

“Dwight Kirby.”

“Where are you from, Mr. Kirby?”

“Secaucus. Over in Jersey.”

“New Jersey,” Will clarified. “And what can I do for you tonight?”

“Put the truth out there. Let folks know that what they’re being told is just to keep them down.”

“We’re going to cover all that and I’ll make sure you get your say. But to begin with, just to put all our cards on the table, so to speak, I have to mention that this is not the customary _News Night_ interview. This show did not solicit your participation tonight, did it?” Will calculated Kirby’s reaction before continuing. “In fact, you engineered an actual takeover of this studio, threatening violence—“

“Yeah, I’ve gotta gun.”

“Yes. You do. And I’m from Nebraska, Mr. Kirby, where we hunt Mule Deer and waterfowl. Not people.” Will paused. “But your gun makes this your show tonight. What brings you here?”

Kirby wet his lips. “Money.”

“You’ll understand if I observe that this is a damned peculiar venue for a stick-up.” 

“Don’t antagonize him, Billy,” Mac’s disembodied voice cajoled.

“I’m not here to steal money. Not even yours, although you’re a rich guy. Probably wouldn’t miss anything I could take from you. But I want there to be some—some— _accountability_ , that’s it, accountability for what’s happened to the money. Where it’s gone.”

“Someone has taken _your_ money, Mr. Kirby—is that what you mean?” 

“Everyone.” Kirby used the back of his hand to wipe the sweat that had beaded on his upper lip. “You’ve got lots of money. You don’t have troubles, right? Not like the rest of us. My fucking—“ he looked momentarily chastened, remembered he was being telecast, resolved to self-censor in the future. “—I got RIF-ed over the summer. The whole plant shut down, everyone got RIF-ed.”

“What did you—“

“Consumer electronics assembly.” The phrase rolled from Kirby’s lips with the practiced pronunciation of an HR euphemism.

“And you performed this work for—?”

“ILIXCO. In Secaucus. Well, used to be. Everything got moved to India. Now what do I do? How am I gonna support my kids? I’m behind in support.”

_I’m no fucking employment counselor_ , Will thought. But he tried to look suitably concerned (ignore the handgun between them) and suggested, “You’ve found some other work since?”

There was a choked bitter laugh. “What do you do when you lose your job? I’ll tell you what you do, you drive for Uber. That’s something. Until you get rear-ended in Newark. Then, you get a title loan to try to tide you over so you can get the car fixed—“

“Title loan—you mean a payday loan from one of the—“

“That’s right. And next thing, you owe four thousand seven hundred thirty-eight dollars. That’s a lot of money.” He shrugged. “For someone like me.’

Jim’s voice came over the IFP. “Will, about 66,800 New Jersey workers filed unemployment claims last year, according to U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics. That’s up from 2011, and the second-highest rate since the bureau began tracking data on mass layoffs.”

Will looked blankly into the camera. _What the fuck am I supposed to do with that information? Can’t you see there’s a man with a gun here now?_

“There’s a tidal wave of labor problems now,” Mac hastened to translate Jim’s intended point. “We’ll try to get you some more salient stats.”

_Hurry_ , Will thought with considerable self-congratulatory sangfroid.

But Kirby had been speaking during the exchange with Control and it took a moment for Will to catch up. 

“—And I couldn’t find his place, so I came here instead. You have all the answers, too, don’t you? Isn’t that why they put you and all the other guys on TV?”

“Wait a second. I’m not responsible for—“ Will caught himself. “What ‘other guys’?”

“O’Reilly. Hannity. Glenn Beck.”

“I’m lost. How are television jour—um, _personalities_ involved in your personal situation, as unfortunate as it may be?”

“Because none of you are talking about how these companies can just move everything overseas. Who allows this? I can’t disable the damn airbags in my own damn car but my plant can just move everything out of the country. Who’s making laws about that?” He raised the muzzle of the weapon, which had noticeably dropped during their earlier conversation.

“Hey.” Will put up a hand in what he hoped was a steadying gesture. “Stay calm, Dwight. There’s no problem.”

_Like hell._

“Then they said I should buy gold—“

“Who?” Then, “Oh,” with realization. The triumvirate of political gloom. “Part of their doomsday snake oil pitch,” Will said grimly. He recalled that the conservative bloviators had loudly espoused buying gold bullion to offset losses they predicted in the stock market under an Obama administration. Never mind that their own cable TV shows had been under-written by bullion-sellers. Or that Beck’s particular flavor of Armageddon was also marketed in his branded Apocalypse Survival Kits, Food Insurance programs, and on line shopping site, MyPatriotSuppliesdotcom.

Will’s chin sank in disbelief. “You liquidated your savings to buy gold?” 

“Fuck, no.” They both winced at the escaped epithet. “I liquidated my savings to pay my rent and buy groceries. And it didn’t take long, I can tell you.” He flourished the gun for emphasis. “I just want to know why you guys say shit like that, act like the rest of us out here are just waiting for your crumbs of wisdom. Like if we do what you’re telling us, we’ll be rich like you.”

“First off, let me reiterate that I am not ‘those guys,’ and this show is not sponsored by anyone selling gold—“

“Sloan Sab—“

“Ms. Sabbith is an analyst for the network, true, but she has the highest academic credentials and impeccable professional ethics—“

“Yeah. Blah, blah. I’m just part of the unwashed masses, and I don’t have your refined speech, but I still know when I’m being manipulated.”

“Look,” Will put his palms on the glass top. “I get it. It’s understandable. There’s a lot of financial noise out there right now. There are three cable channels dedicated to it 24-7 here in the U.S. And there are eight full-time news channels. That’s a helluva ratio. So it’s easy to become confused. These are complicated issues and there are a lot of voices, with conflicting opinions.”

“Don’t forget the Tea Party was essentially created by a financial commentator,” Jim whispered into the IFB. “The famous rant by Rick Santelli on CNBC. Not to mention Larry Kudlow’s psuedo-political logorrhea.”

Will tried to manage an exasperated look into the camera. _Jesus, Mac, give me something I can use and stop Harper from just saying things that make Kirby’s case._

“I never got an equal share,” Kirby maintained.

“Will.” Mac’s voice overrode Jim’s and sounded tense, as if she had abruptly shut him down. “Let this man keep his dignity. You don’t have to explain him or argue with him. Don’t rush him. Give him time to talk. Give him space.”

_Yeah._

_Space._

_Was that the same space she’d talked about a few days earlier?_

_As the heel of his hand fit perfectly into the hollow at the base of her spine, and he pushed his hand up, a languid trail over muscle and the tiny ridges of backbone. As she lay on her stomach, eyes turned to him and narrowed with the delicious sensation, breathing a tiny murmur of contentment. As she batted the non-answer back to him for the third time. “Let’s slow down. Enjoy the romance for a bit.” Which to him sounded like code for having second thoughts. Preserving an exit strategy. And after all the irony of her having said, “Took you long enough,” to now being in no hurry?_

“What constitutes an equal share? And what makes you believe that you have an entitlement—“

“Will, you’re sounding adversarial.”

He exhaled and tried to regroup. “You’ve had some bad breaks recently, Mr. Kirby. I can’t deny that. But it’s illusory to think there’s ever been a guarantee—“

Kirby snorted. “Are you going to tell me you feel my pain?”

“No—I was just—“

“What do you make a day? Do you make $5,000 a day?”

“In a free market economy, I make what the market will bear.” Hadn’t he said something similar to the OWS woman a few months ago?

“I understand free market economy, asshole. It’s another way of saying you’re more important than I am. That you’re essential to your job, that you’re getting $12 million—“

“Whoa, that’s nowhere near—“

“—and I’m, what, not even worth $600 every two weeks in unemployment benefits?” For the first time since entering, Kirby seemed truly angry and he flexed his hold on the handgun.

Will noted his index finger was still outside the trigger cage. 

“You lost your job so you can threaten my life? How does that balance the scales?”

“Billy,” Mac’s voice sounded pleading. “This is about power, not money. Play along with him. This guy feels as though he has no power.”

_Except over me._

Even more than simply being frightened, Will was beginning to see a pattern.

_Thefallacyisbelievingthatifyoudowhathewantsyou’llgetthroughthisexceptthatthatadvicefailedyoubefore you’llneverbegoodenoughhe’llfindtheerroryoucan’tdoitrightenoughorfastenoughormeethisstandardandwhenhehasyouthinkingthatifyoujustdothisonethingexactlythewayhesaidit’llbeenoughhe’llletyouknow he’sfooledyougainthattherewasneveranychanceforyoutobegoodenoughandthatitwouldn’thavematteredinanycasebecausehejustwantedtobreakyourwillbeforedoingwhathewasgoingtodoanyway_

“You get the best of everything,” Kirby insisted, continuing to rail at perceived privilege.

Will tried to think of something to mollify the other man. Something that wouldn’t provoke. Something that would restore his own everyman status and enhance his odds of survivability. “Let’s not paint this as a class war.” 

_Because that leaves me vulnerable._

“No. Let’s not do that.” Kirby paused for a long moment. Then, he asked, “Are you married?”

“No.” Reflexively. Not so much candor as habit.

Will heard a soft exhalation in his earpiece. Saw the smile on Kirby’s face. Knew that while he’d answered correctly, he’d also answered wrongly.

“Good,” Kirby said. “I feel better about that. I know I’m never gonna leave here alive. All we’ve been negotiating is whether you will.”

_Oh god. Mac._

Will knew he had inflicted upon her a hundred tiny cruelties over the years, all deliberate, and this would be the ultimate one, but it would be from not having thought about the consequences.

Then, through the IFB: “I love you.” 

There it was, stark and final. Mac whispered and Will knew, realized the import of whispers and big sentiments at this particular moment. Resolution was imminent and god only knew what that meant. He hoped that she was able to read everything he was trying to convey in one intense look, know that he realized the implication of such a sign-off.

He still wanted to protest. _This isn’t the way our story ends._

There was an odd sound for which he couldn’t account. Will looked up and Kirby, with sharp apprehensive glances all around, jumped to his feet and raised the arm holding his weapon.

There was a strobe of light and a concussive force that knocked Will backward. 

He never heard the explosion.

The event terminated at 9:03pm.


	3. I Was Just Producing

MacKenzie watched as Will tapped his pen in the customary salute upon returning from break.

Routine was something to cling to right now.

But she couldn’t help notice the expression he wore. Will’s blue eyes were paler than usual, wider than usual. Over-exposed in the bright lights of Studio 1A.

Vulnerable.

_“Welcome back to News Night. Tonight, we have a guest in the studio—“_

Jim deliberately squeaked the chair he had eased into in Joey’s customary place at the graphics board. He was reluctant to break the implicit moratorium on words but wanted to let her know he was standing by for whatever she might require.

Finally, he wet his lips. “Do you want a banner at the bottom of the screen?”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t want to rush to characterize this. Will’s quite good at the extemporaneous—he can walk this guy back without—“

_“—and I just couldn’t take your misrepresenting things anymore.”_

Hearing this, she flinched and thought, _Or maybe not._

There was a beat before she resumed. “No banner.” As long as the intruder kept the handgun out of frame, they might be able to disguise the event, downplay it for the viewers. Maintain the calm. Simply listen to the man until he could be convinced to surrender.

“Roger that.” Jim leaned two seats over and picked up the phone, punched the flashing line. “Hold on. I’m putting you on speaker.”

“Mac.” Though at a lower-than-usual decibel level, obviously a concession to the circumstances, Charlie’s voice nonetheless boomed through the nearly-empty Control room. “We’re monitoring this downstairs in Transmission Control. Reese is here, and Lieutenant Hodges with the tactical response team. They’re used to these barricaded hostage scenarios.”

Hostage. That was the correct term, no doubt, but not a concept on which she wished to linger.

“How do they usually handle _these_ scenarios, Charlie?” She couldn’t keep archness from her voice.

Charlie did not respond. Perhaps he had his own conscience to deal with. He’d allowed Will to pressure him into discontinuing Blue North’s security shadow. Charlie had felt the radioactive notoriety of Genoa necessitated, as he put it, bridge-building rather than bridge-burning stories, so he bought into anything to lower antipathy with the American Taliban faction of loonies. MacKenzie’s input had not been sought, which at the time was something of a relief, because she, too, was suddenly ambivalent about picking new fights when it seemed that they had their hands full. So the anchor/managing editor had prevailed. No Blue North security detail. No scouring Twitter and emails for threats, veiled or open. No looking over his shoulder.

From the monitor, during her reverie, _“Dwight Kirby.”_

“Okay, we’ve got a name now,” a voice exulted in the background of the open phone line. 

Jim exchanged a quick glance with Mac before commencing a search for _Kirby, Dwight_ , on the open notebook computer at the next work station. Whatever there might be to find, he wanted to get to it first, before the voices with Charlie.

But Mac’s attention was focused on Will’s image on the monitor.

_“This is not the customary News Night interview and this show did not solicit your participation tonight.” Will the prosecutor was speaking now. “In fact, you engineered an actual takeover of this studio—“_

_“Yeah, I’ve gotta gun.”_

“Don’t antagonize him, Billy,” she said into the mic, needing to remind him to tread carefully. This was not the moment for the elitist prick anchor. 

Bring back the affability, Leno.

Will’s eyes darted briefly to the camera, indicating he’d heard her warning.

“This man just wants his say,” Mac announced to Jim and the open phone line. She had toggled off the mic so that Will didn’t have to follow two conversations at once; it was better that he have undivided attention for the man with the gun. “All we have to do is give him a platform, give him a sympathetic ear, let him—“ She had been waiting for Charlie to interrupt with assurance that she was right and when he didn’t her voice trailed off.

Seconds passed with a low murmur of voices over the speaker. Finally, Charlie’s voice registered.

“Mac, we’re talking through some options here—let me give you a call back when we’ve nailed things down.” There was a click as Charlie disconnected.

“Well, we’re not going anywhere,” Jim muttered sardonically.

Mac wasn’t sure what options Charlie meant, except that the studied impreciseness of his words served to spike her fears. The anxiety was making her hands icy so she began to rub them on her upper arms.

_“And you performed this work for—?”_

_“ILIXCO. In Secaucus. Well, used to be. Everything moved to India. Now what do I do? How am I gonna support my kids?”_

Jim switched the mic feeding Will’s interruptible feedback unit. “Will, about 66,800 New Jersey workers filed unemployment claims last year, according to U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics—“ 

Mac grimaced and made a slashing motion to Jim. This wasn’t a Deepwater Horizon event, where every arcane statistic had to be trotted out to fill time in an unfolding story. Will needed specific, targeted information. “We’ll get you something salient,” she intervened.

Turning to Jim, who slumped with his chagrin, she reeled off what she had in mind. “ILIXCO closure, number of employees, type of products, owner or parent company, any push-back to the closure from local governmental or union officials—“

Jim gave an exaggerated nod, chastened. He knew this. But the search, admittedly cursory, on Kirby’s name had turned up zilch. An address, that was all. He’d been so over-anxious to deliver something, anything, that he had overlooked the negligible value of what he had provided.

She looked up at the front wall and took a step back, still rubbing her hands in an ineffectual attempt to warm them. Because Jim had locked down the crane camera, all six monitors on Control’s front wall carried the same image of Will and Kirby, carefully framed so that the handgun was out of sight (unless Kirby began waving it again).

_“You’ve had some bad breaks recently, Mr. Kirby. I can’t deny that.”_

_“Are you going to tell me you feel my pain?”_

_“No—I was just—“_

_“What do you make a day? Do you make $5,000.00 a day?”_

_“In a free market economy, I make what the market will bear.”_

This discussion was trouble, Mac knew instinctively. Will was on thin ice. 

“Billy.” Pleading always started with the familiar. “You’re sounding adversarial. Find a way to connect with him. This is about power, not money. Be his friend.”

That last comment earned her an exasperated if discreet hoist of his eyebrows. He tugged at his necktie, a gesture she instantly recognized as phenomenally uncharacteristic. Will was always confident and poised before the camera. If he pulled at his collar on air, it clearly indicated his discomfort.

_“—and I’m, what, not even worth $600 every two weeks in unemployment benefits?”_

Kirby raised the gun for emphasis, causing a sharp intake of air from both Mac and Jim, riveted to the monitors.

_“How does threatening my life balance the scales?”_

Mac recognized the umbrage in Will’s tone and knew this conversation between Will and Kirby was beginning to spiral out of control. She held her breath as her mind raced for any helpful stage direction she could offer.

The phone to Jim’s right flashed again and he put it to his ear briefly before connecting it to speaker again. “Charlie.”

“You’re going to see something,” Charlie began, obviously in the unenviable role of go-between with the authorities. “I just want you to know to expect it. We’re going to hack the broadcast—essentially, replace the signal going to his device with a point-to-point feed—“

“You’re going closed circuit? What will that solve?” Mac erupted. “That’s simply allowing this to go on as private theatre—except that the actors in it don’t know it.”

In an effort to ease the tension, Jim spoke up. “But you can still negotiate—“

“We won’t be negotiating,” a new voice advised flatly.

“Charlie— _Charlie_.” On the second word, Mac’s voice wavered and dropped, registering her incredulity, anguish, and sense of betrayal.

There was a pause while voices on the other end made harsh, indistinguishable noises. Finally, Charlie returned to the line. 

“Mac. We both knew that at some point the authorities would have to—“ 

“This is a little man. He’s scared. He’s desperate. As long as Will can allow him his dignity, and keep him talking—“

“Listen to yourself, Mac. _Scared and desperate_ —does anything about that phrase conjure a positive outcome? The banality of this situation in no way diminishes the desperation of it.” He paused. “Look, Reese and I both have argued since this began, but the bottom line is they don’t think they can negotiate with this guy. Nothing he’s said has been right, everything’s just a bit off kilter. He used to live in Secaucus but has no current address. Can’t find a record of any kids. ILIXCO moved to India two years ago not last summer. Nothing he’s told Will can be verified.”

“Brilliant,” she murmured, irony plain. “What do the authorities propose? A little _Grand Guignol_ voyeurism? It’s ghoulish. This is Will, Charlie. _Will._ There has got to be another way—“ 

Suddenly, five of the six monitors on the wall shifted to color bars for brief seconds before flashing to the image of Terry Smith at the ACN desk in Washington D.C., where a banner reading _Live Hostage Incident ACN N.Y._ displayed across the bottom of the screen.

Mac and Jim traded dismayed glances.

The sixth monitor alone, bottom right, remained trained on Will and Kirby.

“Kirby’s still seeing himself with Will. He won’t know the difference.” Charlie talked quickly, wanting to get through this as fast as possible. “Sampat had the idea of colluding with the data provider to hijack the feed.”

“Wait one—“

They all saw what had alerted Jim. Kirby seemed to have regained control of both his weapon and temper. He stared at Will with an expression of what appeared to be bemusement, and then visibly relaxed. 

_“Are you married?”_

_“No.”_

Mac’s head dropped back, eyes closed, and a gasp escaped. She instantly grasped the implicit malevolence of the exchange.

_“Good. I know I’m never gonna leave here alive. All we’ve been negotiating is whether you will.”_

Charlie exhaled heavily. “They have people in place, or will have very soon. When they can get a clean shot they’re going to take him down. They want you out of there.”

“He needs me here.”

“You can’t do anything for him—“

Jim cleared his throat. “We’re—uh—we’re not leaving anyone on the field, Charlie.”

Mac put a hand on Jim’s shoulder and squeezed gratefully. He might be reluctant but he was always loyal to a fault.

_“Fuck.”_ With that vulgarity Charlie seemed to acknowledge either their combined intractability or just Mac’s moral rightness. “Get on the floor, both of you. Now. Get away from glass, behind something heavy.” Pause. “These guys know what they’re doing, Mac. This can still end okay.”

Wordless and completely contrary to Charlie’s instruction, she edged nearer the single monitor with Will’s image. Behind her, Jim took the call off speaker and brought the receiver to his ear.

Running through her mind was that she had done such a poor job of articulating why it seemed important to her to wait. Not jump into the formalities and legalities of marriage without a period of decompression. She had meant it when she’d told him yes. But she wanted to use judgment this time, not just emotion. 

And, of course, she wanted agency in this decision. After three years of emotional Siberia, after three more of mostly insurgent combat, she deserved a voice, at least. Not to mention that a little wooing was overdue in this reconstituted relationship.

Had she undermined love for— _scheduling_?

“Will—I bungled it earlier and—” She swallowed, her throat constricting. “I’m so sorry for not—“

As she should have guessed, it was the change in her tone, rather than her words, that made him turn and look up into the camera, blue eyes flashing. “I’m all in, Billy—“ She felt Jim’s hands on her shoulders, beginning to move her back, away from the array of monitors that she only now recognized as all having the ILIXCO unique X-in-an-oval logo on them.

“Love you,” she managed just as the tether of the headset was released.

On screen, Will blinked. For a brief moment the inner conflict the anchor was undoubtedly experiencing shadowed his face. That he wanted to prolong the contact with Mac, but understood the dark part of using her as an emotional lifeline.

This wasn’t fair, even by the crazy cosmic justice that meted out two years exile in a war zone for the crime of a broken romance. 

More unjust still was the fact that Will never entered the warzone. It came to him.

Jim was still inching MacKenzie back when the first blast discharged. 

“Get down,” she ordered but Jim pushed her down first. Briefly stumbling over a wheeled chair, he followed her into a crouch on the floor. 

Three seconds later (had they been counting), a second detonation shook Control, immediately followed by bursts of popping sounds. Slugs, some ricochets and some wild shots, exploded through the wall of monitors, causing circuits to arc and spraying the space with splinters of glass and plastic. 

Jim had not disconnected the line with Charlie, so through the phone’s speaker they heard muffled shouts followed by, “Extracting HVT—okay, we’ve got him.” She recognized the voice as the one that had interrupted Charlie to say there would be no negotiation with Kirby; presumably, that of Lieutenant Hodges, leader of the tactical response team.

Rising, Mac braced herself on the video switcher panel. She looked as Jim uncoiled himself and did similarly a few feet distant. An acrid odor and slight haze filled the room. Probably the result of frying electronics, she realized.

Suddenly, two individuals in helmets and body armor burst through the doors. “Keep your hands at your side—don’t touch your face!”


	4. Objects in the Rear View Mirror

_**Detective James** : How did we miss you on our sweep, Mr. Keith?_  
_**Don Keefer** : That’s Keefer, K-double E- F-E-R. And I was in the editing studio upstairs. Guess no one checked there until—_  
_**Det. James** : You’re an editor?_  
_**Don** : [Slow smile] I know my wardrobe may not support my assertion that I’m an Executive Producer for ACN, but—_

At 8:55pm, Don had been immersed in a quick patch job on a piece for the B block of Right Here when a police officer in full tactical garb accosted him.

Startling. 

To say the least.

And Don intended to have a lot more to say to his own staff later. _Such as why no one had notified him that the biggest fucking news of the day was happening less than 100 feet away._

Of course, he _had_ left his phone on his desk. In his office. So there might have been some confusion about how to reach him.

They would probably expect to be cut a little slack for that.

Fuck that. “Next time, forget the excuses and find me,” he rehearsed in his head as the scary pseudo-storm trooper dragged him roughly by his elbow down the corridor, head swiveling like a bird of prey.

“Is there just one guy with a gun or a whole platoon?”

The cop fixed him with a baleful stare. “One man with a semi-automatic weapon can kill a lot of people. Think Virginia Tech. Sandy Hook.”

“And he’s taken the whole newsroom?”

“Most of the folks got out. I think there’s just the people involved with the broadcast—“

“Will?”

“You can do all your little news-gathering from the lobby below,” the cop returned. “Just now, we need to get you out of here.”

They paused at the top of the stairs leading to the News Night bullpen. 

“Wait—“ the cop commanded before turning away and hunkering down over the microphone clipped to his vest. Following a short burst of static and muffled voices, the cop was back. “Okay, I want you to stay here, _right here_ ,” speaking in italics for emphasis. “They’re going to try a dynamic entry and—“

A muffled boom rumbled from below.

“Time’s up,” the cop added in wry commentary. “Remember what I said, _keep your head down and stay here_.” Another quick glance around and he began a furtive descent of the stairs.

On his hands and knees, Don dropped and snuggled up to the wall behind him. When the second boom rolled out, he suddenly thought to throw his forearms over his head. The burst of gunfire that immediately followed reinforced the soundness of his action. 

The popping sounds went on forever. Perhaps fifteen seconds.

Then there were voices. Shouting.

Don lifted his head at this. The immediate danger seemed to have passed. Tentatively, he craned over the stairs.

A half minute later, two cops loped in, one on each side of a figure that could only be Will McAvoy. They struggled to haul him, mostly unresponsive, through the newsroom, before finally depositing him in the chair where Maggie usually sat.

_Memo for future rescues_ , Don thought. _Send taller cops_.

But since he’d already violated the first stricture— _keep your head down and stay here_ —Don figured it couldn’t hurt to bend others. This was where the authorities had evacuated Will, so it seemed logical to assume the bullpen must be safe now. _Secure_. Whatever the official word was. So he fell into his best Groucho Marx duck-walk and scuttled down the stairs.

Will’s suit jacket, a nice gray sharkskin, was now mottled with claret-colored splashes. The overall effect reminded Don of someone—deKooning, perhaps, or Pollock. 

One of the cops had disappeared but the second was still there, loosening Will’s collar. Don thought that was an encouraging sign.

“Who the fuck are you? You shouldn’t be here.”

Don ignored the tone of the challenge. At some point, cops were just entitled to be preemptory and demanding. He leaned across the desk that separated them. “I work here. Is he going to—?”

“Lucked out. No injury at all, as far as I can tell. Of course, we’ll have him checked out by the tactical para. The other guy fell on him so this is—“

“Someone else’s blood,” Don finished, getting the drift. “How is the other—“ He stopped abruptly at the cop’s dark expression.

_Okay, then._

“He’s going to be disoriented for a while. The FNDD—“ he watched Don struggle for a moment with the acronym before rescuing him with professional condescension. “Flash and noise diversionary device. _Flashbang_. He’ll get his hearing back in an hour or two, but the flashbang will play havoc with his sense of balance for days. It disrupts the fluid in the inner ear, you know.”

Will’s eyes were open and in motion, but they didn’t appear to light on any object with recognition.

“Here. Help me with this.” The cop eased one of Will’s arms from the blood-spattered jacket and Don braced Will as the cop moved to the other side. He handed the jacket to Don, who promptly pitched it in the direction of Jenna’s desk.

Something for an intern to deal with.

Don became aware that Will had focused on him. “Good to see you’re back, man. But, you know, sweeps were _last_ month.” He thought a little levity might help. 

Will seemed to want to say something but couldn’t quite articulate it, his lips forming words that never made it to his voice box.

Don responded with as manfully a reassuring pat as he could manage. He looked up at a commotion in the far end of the room.

Three figures stood in the shadowed recess of the corridor leading to Control. The taller figure was plainly another first responder in full tactical gear, except that he carried a large pack instead of (or in addition to) a weapon. The other two outlines puzzled him until one adopted a characteristic slouch, hands on hips. It had to be Jim Harper. So, that meant the other one was likely—

Don advanced toward them. “What’s going on?”

“Don—“ Mac looked up anxiously and hopefully. “How did you—?”

“I said, keep your hands _down_.” The new cop inserted himself between them. “I’m going to have to insist you to stand back, sir. This is a hot zone and I’ve got to wait for the decontamination—“

“Hot zone? Decontamination?” Don frowned and looked from Mac to Jim and back. “What have we got here? Plutonium?” He cracked a grin and waited for others to join him, but they didn’t.

“I’m the tactical EMT and— _hey, I told you, don’t touch your face_ ,” the man barked at Jim, who had unthinkingly reached to scratch some place north.

That was when Don noticed their faces and clothing, all glittering with tiny crystalline specks. It reminded him of doughnuts liberally doused with granulated sugar.

“Almost as bad. Mercury spill, from all those goddam TV monitors. When they shatter, you get fumes from the CCFLs, the liquid crystal backlights. Plus, there’s all the pulverized glass and plastic, and probable heavy metals. All toxic. That’s why I keep reminding them not to touch their faces.” The last sentence came with a warning look at Jim. “We’ve got to get a decon kit and vacuum up here—we need a complete hazmat swab down. These two can’t be moved until we—“

“Will?” Mac’s eyes had boresighted on him across the room, slumped in the chair and still visibly befogged. “I’ve got to—“ She tried to surge past them but the EMT body blocked her.

“What’s your name?” Don asked.

“Benny.”

“Well, Benny, that guy over there—“ Don inclined his head to indicate Will, “he’s her—um, significant other. He was the guy in the studio—“

“He was the hostage?”

Two men and a woman winced in unison at the characterization, but Don plowed right on, regardless.

“Have a heart, man. Why don’t you let her—“

Benny considered for long seconds before finally sighing. “I am gonna be _so_ fired for this.” He looked at Don. “Okay, reach in my pack and look for an emergency blanket. It’s Mylar, kind of silvery, and it’s in a small plastic—yeah, that’s it. Toss it to your friend there.” Then, to Jim, “Rip it open and hold it up.”

Benny turned back to Don. “Now, look for some individually packaged wipes—yeah, yeah, that’s them.” He passed the wipes to Mac. “Use the wipes to wipe the particles from your face, hands, neck, and hair. Ears, too. You,” he again indicated Jim, “you supervise. Make sure she gets all the exposed areas.” He shook his head and added, “You’re still going to have to take a shower as soon as you can, just to make sure all that stuff’s off you. Broken monitors are bad shit.”

After a minute, Jim and Mac both turned expectantly to the EMT.

“Clothes. The only way I can let you over there is for you to strip down to your—um, _skivvies_ —” Benny’s vocabulary was obviously pressed for a gender-neutral word for underwear. “All outer clothing off, just drop everything on the floor. Shoes, too. Stockings. This is all a hot zone now, everything’s going to have to be—that’s it, take the blanket.” 

Jim passed the hem of the Mylar blanket to Mac, who wrapped it around her, caftan-style. With shiny eyes, Mac looked for a sign.

Benny nodded and stepped aside. “Okay. And I hope you put in a good word for me with the IAB,” he muttered. “Whoa. Get back here, bucko.” Benny herded Jim back from his abortive attempt to follow after Mac. “Weren’t you listening? When the decon team gets here, they’re gonna find _someone_ in quarantine.”

“Don—she keeps, she used to keep a bag in her office, change of clothes—“ Jim spoke very quickly, eyes following Mac as she edged away.

“Yeah, well, don’t be too quick to dismiss the therapeutic benefits of a nearly naked fiancé on Will just now,” Don offered over his shoulder, as he turned to trail after Mac.

Careful of her blanket train, Mac hurried to Maggie’s desk but stopped a few feet short. Don thought this was probably Mac being mindful of the contaminants the EMT had warned of and determined to minimize the spread of the residue.

“Will?”

He didn’t seem to hear her, so the cop leaning on the desk tapped Will’s shoulder and pointed. Will’s eyes slowly came up, seeing her face, recognizing her and smiling, involuntarily, and yet somehow not fully grasping the immediacy and reality of her image.

Her head tilted, in the way it often did when she looked at him, and her forehead creased with obvious concern. She reached forward to put her free hand on his sleeve, then moved it to his face. At that, the dreaminess began to drain away and he blinked rapidly, like a man entering a brightly lit room. She spoke his name again.

“I can’t—“ He waved his hands and spoke too loudly, like one unable to hear and modulate his own voice accordingly. But it was the first time he’d spoken, which alone said volumes.

Don became conscious of people swarming into the newsroom. More cops, ordinary uniformed police officers lacking the _military-esque_ body armor of the tactical response team. A couple of guys in suits. 

The attending officer had withdrawn back to where Don stood, about a dozen feet from Will and Mac. “He’s that guy on TV, right?”

“Yup.” 

“When I worked days, I used to watch the show sometimes.” The cop shook his head. “Some crazy with a gun busts in on you. Makes you realize what’s important. The hazards of being rich and famous, I guess.”

“Someone’s gotta do it. The rich and famous part, I mean.”

The cop grunted. 

Though still swaying, Will had risen to lean against the edge of the desk. The better to press Mac tightly against him, since maintaining the décolletage of her ersatz gown created an impediment to returning his embrace. She dropped her head on Will’s shoulder.

“So, there’s a lot of glamour in the news—money and glamour?”

“Not as much as everyone seems to think.” Folding his arms across his chest, Don happened to glance up at the tier of monitors in the newsroom. All three showed the usual talking heads, representatives of competing cable networks. One still had the old banner, _Unfolding ACN Hostage Situation_ , across the bottom of the screen, but the other two featured an update: _ACN Hostage Stand-off Ended._ Or words to that effect.

“Well—I don’t get to see too many happy endings. So this one is nice.”

Don nodded in the general direction of Will and Mac. “You know, they were on the fence about this thing for, _jeeze_ , six or seven years.”

“Hmmm. Well, I’d say they’re together now.”

“Looks that way.”

 

_**Detective James** : [Retracts ballpoint pen with a click] That about does it, Mr. Keefer. Thanks for your time._  
_**Don Keefer** : Case closed then?_  
_**Det. James** : We close cases for the same reason you stop covering stories. Something new happens and we have to move on. Few cases account for all the details. Real life isn’t like a Stieg Larsson novel. [Holds up plastic evidence bag containing handgun] Like this little detail. No firing pin. Someone removed it. Crazy thing to do, really. The only way this gun could have hurt anyone would have been to throw it at them._  
_**Don** : You fucking me?_  
_**Det. James** : Definitely not._  
_**Don** : You think it was all a bluff?_  
_**Det. James** : No way to know. It was a gateway to your little media soapbox. There was a lot of panic, fear. And, of course, someone’s dead. But we aren’t ever going to figure out the punchline from what was left to us._

**Author's Note:**

> Note 1: The Winter Solstice is, astronomically speaking, the longest night of the year.
> 
> Note 2: Crazies looking to take over a broadcast station are nothing new. It happened in 2015 in New Orleans and in the Netherlands; it happened in 1999 at BBC London; and in 1982 in Phoenix, Arizona. But the most spectacular episode occurred in Cincinnati, Ohio, in 1980, when a murderer, armed with a handgun, took nine hostages in the WCPO-TV newsroom and forced a female reporter to interview him for 12 hours before he finally committed suicide. The station’s male anchor produced the live telecast from a mobile unit outside. Interestingly, the reporter and the anchor married the following year.


End file.
